Hallucinations can't open doors
by Bespectacled dreamer
Summary: "Hallucinations can't open doors." John whispered. He smirked. "Good deduction, John. You've gotten better at it I see." Return fic, in which John gets married and Sherlock gets a broken nose. One-shot.


Hello again! So this is one of my first non-PJO stories, as usual, only the story belongs to me, John, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade belong to ACD and Moffatiss.

"Bloody… Fucking—" John started to curse, the white bow tie he was trying to tie hung from his neck despite his best efforts.

_Idiot. _He could hear him jeer. _Next thing you know, you'll be having a row with the bloody thing._

He sighed and was about to take it off and try again when the door opened.

Greg peered in and said, "Mrs. Hudson asked me to check on you. Everything alright?" He asked before fully letting himself in.

"Just.. Peachy.." He said as he struggled with the bow tie again. He felt rather than saw Greg smirk, and heard him come forward to help him with it. John smiled in thanks and let Greg finish.

"When and where, exactly does a Detective Inspector learn to tie bow ties?" John asked teasingly, examining the perfect little bow Greg made.

"Shove off," he said jokingly, and smiled. "Big day, huh?" He nudged John on the shoulder. John smiled sadly and he saw the detective inspector mimic it and put a hand on his shoulder. He knew he didn't have to say anything, they were both thinking of the same curly-haired, coat clad detective.

God, has it been three years? Three years since—

"Well, I'll leave you to it then. See you in," He checked his watch, "Twenty minutes. See you John." Greg patted his shoulder and left the room. John looked at himself in the mirror and tried for a smile.

But he saw the bags under his eyes and remembered cold nights in cold sheets, night terror upon night terror and instead seeking for the comfort of the violin, he hoped never to hear it again; the memories would crush him like a ton of bricks. The tremors in his hand and the cane he's needed to use again - for three years now - were just painful reminders now.

_You look horrible._ John could hear him say. And he sighed. He thought he was over those hallucinations. He was just about to open the door when it flew open before he could touch the knob.

John blinked. He was hallucinating. He had to be. God, he was going mad wasn't he.

This was his chance though, to say anything he didn't say, finish that chapter of his life already, but all he said was,

"Hallucinations can't open doors." He whispered.

He smirked. "Good deduction, John. You've gotten better at it I see." He said in that mocking tone of his that just emanated the thought, 'Punch me in the face.' And this time, John actually did.

"Augh," he said from the floor as he tried to staunch the flow of blood coming from his nose. "I guess I deserved that." He said nasally. John frowned and shook his now aching - but not trembling, John noticed - hand.

"Three bloody years." John said through gritted teeth, barely restraining himself from strangling the impeccably dressed, and as far as tangibility is concerned, alive, Sherlock Holmes.

He gracefully, or as graceful as you can while holding your nose, got off the floor and looked at John seriously.

"John," he said, letting go of his nose and letting blood drip onto the three piece suit he was wearing, which meticulously matched John's, except he was wearing a - now blood stained - cream tie."I'm so, so sorry." He said, for the first time in John's memory of him, without a hint of hesitation or mockery.

"Do you have any bloody idea what I've been through." He growled, shoving him into the room and shutting the door.

"Yes, John. Actually, I do." He said wearily.

And that's when John really looked at him.

He looked like he'd hadn't slept in three years. The bags under his eyes were more prominent, and - if it were even possible - he was /thinner/. The man was so thin, John thought he could see rib bones peeking out through the three piece suit he was wearing, and his eyes looked like the life was sucked right out of it. He looked like he was dragged through hell and back, and still, managed to look like he invented the three piece suit.

He looked, well, horrible. But John wasn't going to forgive him just yet.

But he is going to let him explain.

"Why." was the only thing he could say. He folded his arms over his chest and waited.

The curly haired man sighed and began to tell his story; from that day he jumped, and why, to his travels around the world, dismantling Moriarty's web, string by silken string. He said about tracking Moriarty's right hand man and finally putting him into police custody, as an anonymous civilian, and how he heard about John's wedding and had a suit made. Up until how he ended up here, bleeding and somehow, against all odds, alive and well.

Well, John wouldn't describe his state right now, as well but, it's better than the alternative.

"Forgive me?" He asked. And for once - gee, this is a day of firsts, he thought to himself. - he looked unsure. If it were anyone else he would've said, maybe even bashful, but no. He wouldn't go as far as _that_.

"Of course you stupid twat," He said, unceremoniously pulling the taller man into a hug. And though shocked at the contact at first, he quickly wrapped his arms around John after the initial shock and gripped him tight.

"I hate you, you bloody sod, you know that." John muttered into his blood-stained tie.

"I missed you too, John." Sherlock said with a smirk.

After what felt like ages, they finally let go of each other and now both had stupid grins plastered on their faces. But John's faltered.

"Why pick today though?" John asked, looking up at the younger man.

"What do you mean?" He asked, obviously mocking John.

John lightly punched Sherlock in the arm, he felt like he could shatter his arm in between his thumb and index finger, he was so thin, and Sherlock said,

"Its not everyday your blogger gets married," He heard his voice break at the word 'marriage' and John raised an eyebrow, but Sherlock paid no mind to it. "And I wanted to come home as soon as possible. This," The wedding, John thought. Sherlock couldn't even say the word. "being a week after I finished off Moran, having just enough time to find a suit. It's impeccable timing, if I do say so myself." He said with a smirk.

John sighed and looked at his watch, it had been forty minutes since Greg was in here.

"Shit," John muttered, pulling on Sherlock's arm. They ran through the corridor and down the stairs to the entrance of the chapel.

Honestly, he hadn't intended on having a best man, but since his dead best mate had decided to pop in, anyways, John looked at the big oak doors and looked to Sherlock. He stepped to the right, looking at Sherlock with a questioning look.

John saw the biggest smile ever to light up that man's face appear on his pale features and stood to John's left, the position of best man.

"My dear Watson," He said in answer to John's questioning look, "I'd be delighted." John smiled.

"And I want to see Lestrade's face. He's sitting in the left side of the chapel, the seat closest to the aisle." He murmured, his grin morphing into a smug smirk.

"Do I even want to know, how…?" John said, letting his sentence trail into a question, and just shook his head as he pushed the big oak doors open, and walked once again at the side of Sherlock Holmes.

So reviews and the like are greatly appericiated :)

Thanks a bunch!

xx Brielle.


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